


Parallax

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: All through this—the trials, the confines, and the quest—Iwaizumi is still a tennin,a spirit of the heavens.He should count such a blessing, even as a bruise blooms angry red on his jaw and his nosebleed has only stopped a few minutes ago. But it's nothing short of a trial as well, when sometimes all he can think about are his friends, his home, and the ignorance of never dwelling on physical pain before.“Are you an alien?”—and how he never had to deal withOikawa Tooru.“No,” Iwaizumi presses once more.Don't kill the human. He attacked you, yeah, but you broke into his house first.“I’m not an alien.”Oikawa Tooru is a sinner with a lot of potential (hopefully for the better). But he isn't, really. He’s a good guy. Relatively.Still, in order to reclaim his lost heavenly virtues, Iwaizumi issufferingassigned to his case.





	Parallax

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [Jazz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostardust/), [Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maih_Kat), and [Cara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cara1317) for checking this over!
> 
> i did research but i'm only human who still have a lot to learn, so feel free to let me know if there are things that need fixes ^^

Iwaizumi is familiar with the act of balancing.

On one, two feet, whether up hills or down steep slopes, rocky terrain or fickle sand dunes, he’s long made them his daily maneuvers. He has always been the adventurous sort, and getting to know the steps of falling helps in staying upright the next time around. When he’d received his feathered kimono and learned to balance in the wind, weightless and hurtling through the sky at _cosmic speed_ , the soles of his feet were already calloused.

Still, earth is a different place from the heavens.

The gravity here anchors him awkwardly, the air settles like something acrid in his lungs, and Iwaizumi swears he's never felt heavier. All these wouldn't normally be too much of a bother, but his feathers are torn, mottled, ashen with dust and grime. And he’s just been released from his imprisonment with every part of him aching.

And so, legs too sore to favor walking, Iwaizumi waits by the bus station, coincidentally also his landing. From the scheduled routes printed on a sign, he determines he's a short ride away from Oikawa Tooru’s residence, and— _well_. That was to be expected. His skills must've gotten rusty, because even the heavens can't be too merciful on criminals.

With nothing else to do in the meanwhile, he's left to peer around. Students and salarymen wait for the start of their routines, dressed in uniforms and business casual; a woman in blue tracksuit gulps in air after her morning run; a few others are in their everyday choices. From there, Iwaizumi conjures up a glamour by mixing up their clothes, sizes and colors varied to blend in, because he's surely a haggard sight as he is now. Underneath the pretense, he tucks his feathered kimono closer to himself, partly out of some protective instinct, and partly from being in such unfamiliar surroundings.

The rainy season has come upon Tokyo early with a light downpour and its constancy. For the first time (since from what he could remember, anyway), Iwaizumi feels the cold.

When the bus arrives and they all shuffle in, he pays the driver with the card Matsukawa had smuggled for him, and finds a pair of empty seats closest to the exit as his phone—a _gift_ from Hanamaki—blares with a screeching pop song. As all eyes flit to him, Iwaizumi offers them a nervous smile, an apologetic bow, and swears to berate those two within an inch of their souls.

“What,” Iwaizumi hisses into the receiver, hoping to project his threats through a phone call heavens apart.

He fails, when traces of fondness and longing seep into his voice.

 _“Be nice, Iwaizumi,”_ comes Hanamaki's scolding, complete with a click of his tongue. _“Humans aren't as forgiving as us.”_

Past the static blips, another voice hums, just as familiar and comforting. _“They aren't, alright,”_ Matsukawa says. _“Maybe they're actually better at it.”_

“Please tell me I can change the ringtone on this shitty phone.”

 _“Oh! Did you like it?”_ Hanamaki's grin is audible. _“I picked it myself.”_

“I hate you.”

 _“Love you, too, dear,”_ Matsukawa replies. _“Anyway, the key we gave you—there’s a map on your phone to a storage facility. We all chipped in for your things and the rent is all paid for the next millennia, so you're free to drop by there anytime.”_

 _“Don't forget all the other human stuff_ ,” Hanamaki chimes in. _“Eating, drinking, sleeping, exercising—”_

_“—copious amount of mind-blowing sex—”_

_“—though I guess you wouldn't forget that last one,”_ Hanamaki finishes, and he lets slip a theatrical gasp right after. _“Matsukawa, you dirty—”_

With a _hiss_ of closing doors, the bus takes off, unsteady in the starting acceleration before then gaining track on asphalt, smoke in the wake of its path. Iwaizumi's stomach lurches, the sensation of grounded vehicles far too strange when he's so used to being unrestrained in the sky.

He says it, anyway: “Thanks, you both,” Iwaizumi tells them. “And everyone else.”

A smile forms over tired visage, small but there nonetheless, a first in gods know how long, when his friends are reduced to silence by the simple words. _“We know that,”_ Hanamaki just drones back without sparing another pause. _“You owe me all the profiteroles on earth, you hear me? Bring back all the good ones.”_

Iwaizumi chuckles. “I don't think that's possible, Hanamaki.”

Peering through the window to his side, he catches the world outside whizzing past by. _Nowhere near fast as flying._ Wearily, he guesses it'd take time adjusting to slowing down as much it would take speeding up.

 _“And books for me,”_ Matsukawa adds. _“Murakami Haruki released a new anthology, but the heavens are still closed off on all sides thanks to your scandalous release.”_

_“The trouble we went through to set up a connection.”_

_“You owe us your return home, Iwaizumi.”_

  
  
  


* * *

  


  
  


Aside from his friends, Iwaizumi counts two more blessings: a working elevator, and humanity’s penchant to challenge the heavens and _build higher_.

Because Oikawa Tooru's residence isn't a normal house but a moderate, _maybe_ high-rise, apartment in Nakameguro, Iwaizumi might be reluctant to leave it for the ground again. His place is more than halfway to the topmost floor, on the twelfth story out of sixteenth. He finds himself standing in front of a labeled door; _Oikawa_ , the nameplate claims in kanji read like _reaching the river_ , right below the number _1441_. At this, he remembers stony footholds scattered across some rivers, treacherous to land on from a jump over surging water, and wonders if it’d be more of a thrill without the insurance of flight.

Back from retrieving his friends’ gifts, Iwaizumi carries with him a large backpack weighed down by a spare, unfeathered kimono, a sewing kit for his feathered one, and as much human apparel as he could fit in it. He reads the _washi_ note again, a message taped to the inside of his locker: ** _Hanamaki-san insisted on choosing your clothes_** , it says in neat brush strokes of ink, which explains some of the _hideous_ color schemes. **_Don't worry; Kyoutani helped. —Watari_** **.**

(Iwaizumi grins at the mention of their youngest, and folds up the note carefully, tucking it away in the safe corners of his bag; he decides to still defy the judges on this choice of right and wrong, after all.)

Daring to draw in a sharp inhale, the air around these parts tastes noticeably fresher, a pleasant sort of cool from leftover rain. He reminds himself that he has a job to do, too, and prepares for another jump. Another flight.

It's too high a risk to travel long distances without his flight feathers. (Iwaizumi discovered this the rough way, when he tried to take a shortcut from the storage facility to here.) Short ones he can make do, albeit fumbling like a chick attempting to fly, but he never planned on giving it up anyway. With that in mind, he closes his eyes, wills the wind and clouds to gather around him in gentle eddies, all built-up energy for the jump, and manages to stumble into the genkan of Oikawa Tooru’s apartment with the quietest whirlwind in his wake. Hand splays against the wall to steady himself, and Iwaizumi lifts his head just in time to dodge a ball hurled straight to his face.

The blur of it crashes behind him with a thunderous _boom_ , rattling the front door on its hinges. Iwaizumi just manages to think _that would've bashed my skull in, the fuck._ “Wait!” he tries anyway, dropping his bag, when the person—Oikawa?—flings another one at him and _by the gods, how many more does this guy have?_

He jumps through the dimension again, _because fuck it, his legs are_ still _hurting and that's the_ third _volleyball_ , landing behind him. Iwaizumi makes a grab for his shoulders amid the confusion, twisting him around and slamming his back against the nearest wall, and squeezes his wrist bones until he drops the volleyball he’s holding with a pained hiss. He only realizes how much pressure he’s applying when the guy—brown hair, light complexion, small face, _Oikawa Tooru_ —can’t entirely bite down a cry as Iwaizumi accidentally sprains both of his wrists.

(Well. So much for being a virtuous tennin.)

“Sorry!” Iwaizumi says, easing up on the hold, but not letting go yet.

Until Oikawa kicks him— _hard_ —on his leg. In one brisk move, _definitely_ not untrained, he flips Iwaizumi around as he unbalances, gravity forcing him to tumble onto his stomach, and straddles him with his weight. Calloused hands jerk Iwaizumi's own together over the small of his back, the grip strong despite their sprains.

And Iwaizumi can shake it off easy, like flicking a stubborn dollop of snow, but he thinks to let Oikawa have this one; past the exhaustion, and the impulse to seek shelter, he did break into his house. Though in his defense, he’d thought it would be unoccupied, seeing as today is a work day and Oikawa's an adult man with a presumably normal job, and he wouldn't have touched anything without permission. _A reconnaissance_ , if you will.

Then again, the heavens had told him Oikawa Tooru was a sinner whose repentance would be worthy of Iwaizumi's vindication, so maybe it was the wrong assumption to go on with.

With another breath flooding the lungs, Iwaizumi clears his thoughts past the throbbing in his legs, the part of his face that hit the floor, the _homesickness_ , and readies himself for an interrogation.

Instead, Oikawa just peers at him, mouth agape.

His eyes are brown, too.

“—Iwa-chan?”

  
  
  


* * *

  


  
  


All through this—the trials, the confines, and the quest—Iwaizumi is still a tennin, _a spirit of the heavens_.

He should count such a blessing, even as a bruise blooms angry red on his jaw and his nosebleed has only stopped a few minutes ago. But it's nothing short of a trial as well, when sometimes all he can think about are his friends, his home, and the ignorance of never dwelling on physical pain before (because the heavens only ever burn the soul as a form of punishment).

“Are you an alien?”

—and how he never had to deal with _Oikawa Tooru_.

He kneads at his eyes with the heel of a palm, exasperated, and because exhaustion always has its way in making all patience shallow.

“No,” Iwaizumi presses once more. _Don't kill the human. He attacked you, yeah, but you broke into his house first._ “I’m not an alien.”

On the couch across from him, Oikawa crosses his arms, one long leg over the other. Iwaizumi himself has to settle with a bean-bag, of all possible things, as it was the only other chair available and it's better than the floor, embarrassing as it is.

“Prove it,” Oikawa simply demands.

Taller than average, Iwaizumi makes him out to be around Hanamaki's height (which means Iwaizumi himself, further unfortunately, is shorter). He’s demonstrated enough strength to dent a steel-reinforced door with a _volleyball_ —of which he has four scattered in his living room alone—and is one of the most infamous talks among heavenly beings.

At the way he's looking at Iwaizumi now, his bottom lip pursed into a pout, cheeks puffed out like a frustrated hamster, and the pure excited gleam in his eyes as he says _aliens_ all conspiratorially, Iwaizumi just _wonders_.

As soon as they established that Iwaizumi wasn't the _Iwa-chan_ he’d meant—and it took a while, as Oikawa insisted on tousling his hair (“ _Prickly_ ,” he’d commented, all thoughtful), grabbing his face and squishing it to ‘test’—he somehow jumped to _extraterrestrial beings_ , which isn't entirely wrong. He did witness Iwaizumi teleport. It's nevertheless insulting, still, to be compared to the green alien plushie with large, black beady-eyes and a tiny smile propped on the side of the couch.

“Isn't it the opposite?” Iwaizumi asks, shifting the ice pack Oikawa lended him along his bruised jaw _,_ and thinks through the daze. Volleyball, killer spike. Branded ice pack. He skims over the coffee table between them, coming across this May’s edition of _Volleyball Monthly_. “You usually have to prove it when you're not human.”

“Well, what else could you be?” Ah. There it is again, a childish sort of excitement, his round eyes wide as he grins with a sliver of teeth. “I saw what you did!”

Maybe it's his built-up vexation at the injustice of everything, or maybe he just wants to lie down in the hush, finally with a chance to sleep after he's been denied rest for a long while; briefly, Iwaizumi entertains the urge to punch something.

“I’m Iwaizumi. I’m a tennin, a spirit of the heavens, and I’m here to help you.”

“That can't be right.”

“Why not?”

“Tennin are divinely beautiful,” Oikawa remarks, all casual about it. “Iwa—Iwaizumi, you're rough-looking and your face right now is scary.”

_The little shit—_

“I’ve had a rough time,” Iwaizumi tells him, mustering up a growl, but it is more of the tired sort than threatening. “ _I’ve had a rough time_ , and while it's gotten better it won't be ending anytime soon. _I’m here to help you_ , because apparently you’ve pissed off someone important high up in the heavens’ corporate ladder, and you _will_ hear me out if you want to keep your ass out of the underworld.”

 _And I need you to get back home,_ he bites back the plea.

Through the resulting quiet, inauspicious as things can be, Oikawa just smiles, downright predatory. Assessing weaknesses. Knowing what and how to kill. At that, Iwaizumi sits up straighter than he ever has, the sudden seesaw of control in the room alarming, and what's left of his feathers bristle under the glamour with no chance to take him to the sky.

“Iwaizumi-kun,” Oikawa lilts out the name, voice a razor dipped in concentrated honey.

Iwaizumi has never liked too-sweet things, anyway, and it just annoys him now more than ever.

“You're in _my_ house, hm? Injured and exhausted. From your sad appearance, your power is currently limited, so you need my help as much you _think_ I need yours.”

Along with his stare, the curve of Oikawa's lips sharpens into a taunt.

“I’m not the desperate party here.”

With that, Oikawa makes to his feet with a small hop from the couch. He saunters to the front door, a light skip to his steps, yet reigning with a sure and unwavering gait. Strangling the handle, he flourishes the aggravating smile at Iwaizumi once more, and Iwaizumi determines that it is this one he fancies to scour first from Oikawa's face.

“Tell your cow of a boss I’m done with his _heavenly business_ ,” Oikawa growls, keeping the bright and overly-cheery intonation. “And feel free to take the guest bedroom—careful, though, some places are warded enough to kill you as you are now.”

  
  
  


* * *

  


  
  


“He knows.”

_“Who?”_

On another heavens-defying phone call, Iwaizumi scrutinize his surrounding for the hazards Oikawa had mentioned, navigating the apartment with utmost caution.

“The guy I’m stuck with,” he says to Matsukawa. “He wasn't shocked or anything. Didn't even blink an eye.”

 _“Well,”_ Matsukawa drawls, _“that is certainly surprising.”_

“Did you know anything about this?”

There's a rustle of paper. Matsukawa flips over to a new page of whatever he’s reading, and Iwaizumi wonders where they’re hiding to answer these discreet calls.

_“No more than you do—everything up here about him is mostly rumor. Some say he's the human most blessed by the gods in this century and just strayed from the path a bit, others that he's cursed because he’s done some horrible things.”_

“Blessed,” Iwaizumi echoes blankly, and decides _by evil spirits_ a more likely option.

 _“We can't tell which ones are true,”_ Matsukawa says. _“And those who’re in the know won't talk—even Irihata-san. And Yuda can be very persistent.”_

From a vantage point by the hallway, Iwaizumi takes in the living room. Right in the heart of it, a _kotatsu_ takes the centerpiece, and he’s taken the liberty to discover that it lives up to its title. With a blue-and-red ceramic elephant draped with jewelries, a silver mechanical clock, at least three mirrors, a dozen candles, and _et cetera_ , Oikawa has collected an assortment of flashy knickknacks. Up to seven pots of succulents claim their own roots in the organized chaos—one on the _kotatsu_ , two on the kitchen counter, and four lining the windowsill facing the main street.

Aside from the alien plushie, still smiling as ever, there is also a lizard-like one, standing on its hind legs instead of all four. The only photograph around is of Oikawa and a mousy-haired man, their arms caging each other's shoulders as the both of them grin into the camera. Without wards or talismans alike uncovered, Iwaizumi hopes it's not because this semi-human state puts a damper on his senses, and decides to later test what he can still do.

“Who assigned me to him again?” Iwaizumi asks in the meanwhile, walking toward the kitchen.

 _“Ohira Reon. Officially_ ,” Matsukawa supplies. _“He deals with all human cases, as you know.”_

“And who's the unofficial one?”

_“We’re looking into it.”_

“Right.”

He stumbles upon another succulent, a small aloe vera tucked above the refrigerator, and is irrationally pissed that he's not tall enough to see the entirety of it.

_Because you can't fly anymore._

_You can't go anywhere._

_You're trapped._

“Whatever you guys are up to,” Iwaizumi adds, “don't get caught.”

_“Says the one who did.”_

“I’ll be here to kick your ass if you're ever banished.”

Past any longing for home, he breaks into a smile at the sound of his friend’s laughter.

  
  
  


* * *

  


  
  


Oikawa Tooru is a liar.

This is the conclusion Iwaizumi draws, three fruitless hours later—admittedly, half of which spent curling up under the _kotatsu_ , attempting to nap—when he dares cross the guest bedroom's threshold and nothing spectacular happens.

_He’s messing with me._

Afternoon sunlight weaves in through cracks in the blinds, casting diagonal strips of dusk on the bed by the window. Iwaizumi turns the overhead lights on, anyway, closes the door halfway, backpack slung over one shoulder, and makes his way across. He sighs, relieved, when the bed doesn't fall too short of what he's expected, if a little dusty like the rest of the room, and lets himself sink into the comfort of it.

Not inclined to change out of his feathered kimono yet, the only thing he has marking him as a tennin right now, and a tether to where he rightfully belongs, he digs out the spare garment: a similar velvety turquoise, without feathers and less elaborate in design. Fewer brambles and flowers crawl up the fabric, but it is unmistakably Seijoh's. Iwaizumi lays it over himself like a blanket, takes solace in how it retains the scent of grassy fields and mountainside breeze, and dozes off with a handful clutched to his chest.

(And _oh,_ does he dream. Green hills and thriving rice paddies sprawl around the feet of clouds-breaking mountains, spirits racing along on dirt road, some with pinwheels and painted kites waved for the wind to catch, but all to chase something infinite. At the base, flowers reign in fields, cosmos and yellow chrysanthemums and cherry blossom trees, ambrosia and all other sorts made perennial by the deities who tended to them. The night is as glorious as day, lantern set alight to accompany the stars.

Up above, thousands of meters even higher, castles and shrines settle, surrounded by their own gardens and flourishes, warmth where there should be perpetual cold. Music plays, and he dances with his kin to the whistles of _ryuuteki_ , the plucks of _yamatogoto_ , the drumming beat of _kakko_. Cheers and claps from the audiences, snickers from Matsukawa and Hanamaki and his other _unruly_ friends, and he's more alive than ever.)

When he is rudely jolted awake to shrill clanking of pots and kitchen utensils, his earlier theory is further confirmed. Lying on his side, facing the window, he finds a striking lack of stars in the night sky (and it feels like he's lost his sense of direction, somehow, because the constellations have always been their navigator), the view outside a mural of lights, like the metropolis might try to replace what the heavens could paint.

At such ungodly hours, nothing should necessitate this amount of noise.

(Conclusion: Oikawa Tooru is messing with him.)

“Ah! You're awake,” said Oikawa singsongs from his perch by the stoves, as Iwaizumi shuts the bedroom door behind him. “You look terribly ruffled.”

“Nice observational skills,” Iwaizumi deadpans through a half-suppressed yawn, wiping at bleary eyes.

In contrast, Oikawa might be the one comparable to a heavenly creature right now, appearance-wise, with how _gratingly_ flawless he looks, hair tousled _just so_ and smile always camera-ready (or even billboard-ready). Well-rested, Iwaizumi could see why his kin would call him _blessed_ , but he's liable to argue that it's mostly, if not all, a front. He’s troublesome enough for a criminal like Iwaizumi to be assigned to him, like it's some sort of an impossible quest (and things like this are not one of Iwaizumi's specialties in the first place).

It is 3AM, Iwaizumi reads from the hands of a mechanical clock, eyes caught by the glint of silver finishing. Oikawa's donned a yellow and white tracksuit, strips of black lining the joint stitches; Iwaizumi understands the importance of running, to train or just for the sake of it, because he’s never one to skimp out on evening runs, either (that is, before he’d been imprisoned), but surely _three in the morning_ is pushing it.

Oikawa gestures at him with a meat cleaver, which isn't a suitable tool at all for the spring onions on the cutting board. “No, I mean”—he flicks the pointed end up and down in Iwaizumi's direction—“you're _ruffled_.”

 _Oh._ And Iwaizumi realizes what he meant, when he notices the glamour has dissipated overnight, leaving him in a rumpled kimono, the _haori_ slipping off his shoulders, and feathers no less awry. “Right. Uh. I’ll go get changed.”

He's in the midst of doing so when a burning smell reaches him, and it hasn't even been five minutes.

“What _exactly_ are you trying to cook?” Iwaizumi asks the second time around.

Oikawa's glaring down at a pot of boiling, bubbling water as if it should submit to his will. Both of his wrists are bandaged, and Iwaizumi readies to apologize for yesterday, but, then again, Oikawa had also given him one nasty bruise and a nosebleed in return. And tricked him. _Off to a great start._

When Oikawa flicks out the flame, the water, most unnervingly, still bubbles and foams, exuding the weirdest smell. “Oh, some fun experiment,” he says, mouth parted for a dramatic sigh. Whenever Iwaizumi frowns at his antics, the more Oikawa seems to parade them, because this smile, a definite cousin of the one Iwaizumi wishes to scour, only brightens like a flashlight shined right in the eyes as he takes in Iwaizumi's jeans and red shirt. “And here I thought you couldn't possibly look sillier.”

“I don't have a lot of choices,” Iwaizumi says. _Just wait until you see Hanamaki’s picks._ “Also, you lied. There aren't any wards around.”

“I did say _some places_. I never mentioned they were here.” Oikawa hums cheerfully. “Now, Iwaizumi-kun, before your head explodes from how much you're _fuming_ right now, there's leftovers in the fridge. Help yourself with it. I’ll have to fix this soup another time.”

Turning on the sink, he tips the pot over it, letting the content flow down the drain, and it sizzles— _fucking sparks_ —with more than just heat as it makes contact with metal.

_You were going to feed us that?_

Ignoring his horrified look, Oikawa ambles to the windowsill to fuss over his succulents.

There is a heavenly being in his apartment, and he prefers to chat with a bunch of cacti.

For Iwaizumi, this is going to be a long stay.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is much appreciated ^O^ 
> 
> on another note, Cara and i will be writing for [Wanderlust zine](https://setters-n-acezine.tumblr.com/) and [HQ Fantasy Zine](https://hqfantasyzine.tumblr.com/) \- they've got some really amazing mods, writers, artists, and cosplayers! check them out (〃＾▽＾〃)
> 
> [tumblr post](https://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/post/163017019494/parallax-relationship-iwaizumi).


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